


Natural Progression

by QueenofBaws (Sisterwives)



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fade to Black, Implied Death, Mercy Killing, serious angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/pseuds/QueenofBaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You loved her, right? Or maybe...you hated her?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Natural Progression

When you first meet, it's as though you're struck by lightening. You hadn't wanted to go to the party in the first place, hadn't been up for the draining buzz of social interaction, but you'd been won over in the end, and now you're thanking your lucky stars. Briefly, you wonder if it's strange to be so taken all at once, but you're suddenly terribly lightheaded and there's a lump in your throat, and you're barely able to remember your name as she asks you for it. Hers is Mary, as classically beautiful as she is, and you realize all at once that this is the woman you're going to marry, someday.  
  
A year later, and you're still finding ways to fall harder for her. Poetry is beginning to make sense in ways you never thought it could, and somehow every love song on the radio is speaking to you on a personal level. When she smiles, it's with her eyes, and it shows through even when she's pretending to be annoyed with you. Her laughter sounds like wind chimes just after an early spring storm on the beach. And while she's not terribly good at it, there's nothing you'd rather do than sit and listen to her play the piano, her exuberance somehow taking away from the occasional flat note.   
  
The wedding isn't anything fancy--neither of you are overly fond of theatrics or showboating--but it's perfect all the same. It's as though, all at once, your world makes sense. Though you'd thought it impossible before, you find yourself thinking she's even more beautiful now than she ever has been. Your families are small, the reception is brief, and you're all the more thankful for it. This is your day, yours and hers, and you're grateful that you'll have some alone time, after all.  
  
Both of you spend the last day just staring out at the lake, watching the waves and the wakes of sailboats that slowly drift by. It isn't until the soft white glow of the moon illuminates the crests of water that you head back into the hotel for the night. And even after that, she sits on the windowsill, looking out over the land with that quiet half-smile of hers. Tomorrow you'll have to leave, return to work and society at large, but that's all right. You kiss the top of her head and promise you'll both come back, someday.   
  
She had assured you it had just been a summer cold, caught from too many late night strolls, but you were beginning to have your doubts. The knot in your stomach had been lurking, leaden and icy, ever since the cough had started. All the same, you can't help yourself but to smile when she laughs that perfect, delicate laugh of hers as your father addresses her by Mrs. Sunderland. "I'm still trying to get used to that," she says with a secret smile your way, and there's no way anything can be wrong, the way her eyes shine. So you both lean back in and listen as your dad goes over the Sullivan case again, and for a few minutes, you barely even notice her coughing.  
  
You begin to lose track of time, after that. Doctor visits and hospital stays begin to melt together until you're not sure what month it is, what year it is. Through it all, she still wears that brave little smile of hers, though you're not sure which one of you she's trying to convince. There are more tests than you'd like, more medications than you can pay for, and a sudden, cold void in your bed at night. But she's going to be okay, she's going to be just fine. After all, it's just a cough, and the doctors will know what to do.  
  
You find yourself dreading visiting hours. You aren't sure what's worse--the way the doctors avoid your eyes in knowing pity and well-deserved shame, or the anguish of watching her fade away. There had been words thrown around, but the only one that had stuck with you was "terminal," and you wore it like a scarlet letter on your chest. But you stay through it all, holding her hand as she laughs, cries, comes to accept it, then falls apart again. Every day feels a little longer, her time a little shorter, and your heart a little heavier. You find yourself filling the time between visits with emptying bottles.  
  
You try not to go, anymore. You don't have the strength. She isn't herself, anymore. She screams horrible things, unfair things. There are accusations that you're avoiding her (you are), you've been looking at the nurses (you might have), you don't love her anymore (you think you still do). She smacks your gifts out of your hands. She tells you to leave. Begs you to come back. Her hair falls out by the day. Her skin starts to slough away. She wishes she were dead. You start to wish it, too.  
  
You try to be happy when she comes home. It's a short stay, the doctors say. There isn't much time. So for a while, you pretend like it's the old days. You actually believe it, for a short time. You feel yourself falling for her again, but that's a dangerous path to take. You hold her hand as she lays in your bed. When she's awake she talks of plans to take another trip. "You promised," she reminds you, but you haven't forgotten. You find yourself wondering each night if this is the last. If you'll wake up next to your wife or a corpse.  
  
You can't do this anymore. When she falls asleep, you let go of her hand. She isn't herself, now. She's not your Mary. You spend a long time in the kitchen, staring into a half-empty glass. You don't like the look in your reflection's eyes. You finish your drink and leave the glass in the sink, where its brethren are overflowing and attracting ants. You're so, so tired all of a sudden. You stand in the doorway to the bedroom, watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps. For no reason at all, you find yourself thinking of that day on the lake.  
  
You tuck her in, one last time.


End file.
